


Bromance

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is a Good Friend, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Humor, M/M, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: The dying firelight of a graveside night casts shadows across the angles of Cas’ face, stern straight nose, strong jawline, smear of dirt across one cheek and the plum of a bruise blooming on his forehead. He licks his lips, catching the bottom between his teeth as he tilts his head to the side and catches Dean’s gaze.Belatedly, Dean realizes that he was reaching out for Cas, hand hovering halfway between them and fingers curling self consciously in on themselves when he realizes how much he wants to grab that stupid beautiful son of a bitch.





	

There’s nothing like ending a good hunt with fire. Open grave at his feet and the flames licking up hot as the bones char and crumple, Dean smiles with satisfaction because his job is badass and his best friend is at his elbow.

Cas is maybe a little worse for the wear. Nothing that’d require a hospital. They might have to swing Sam by for stitches, he’s got a gash across his forehead from being tossed into a gravestone and is currently benched in the back of the impala with a rag pressed to it. Cas, he has a couple bruises and Dean is definitely going to check for broken ribs - and no, that’s not just an excuse to feel him up later - but he’s standing on his own two feet with an empty can of salt in his hands and a small smile on his face.

The air smells like grave rot and gasoline. The dirt sunk under his nails is gritty as Dean rubs his hands together and steals sideways glances. ‘Human’ looks good on Cas, finally starting to look loose and comfortable in his baggy, borrowed clothes. They really do need to stop somewhere and let him pick out his own stuff. Some weird, tight pressure lodges itself in Dean’s chest at the thought of perusing a Goodwill with Cas and getting to check out his ass in different pairs of jeans.

The dying firelight of a graveside night casts shadows across the angles of Cas’ face, stern straight nose, strong jawline, smear of dirt across one cheek and the plum of a bruise blooming on his forehead. He licks his lips, catching the bottom between his teeth as he tilts his head to the side and catches Dean’s gaze.

Belatedly, Dean realizes that he was reaching out for Cas, hand hovering halfway between them and fingers curling self consciously in on themselves when he realizes how much he wants to grab that stupid beautiful son of a bitch.

So Dean clears his throat. Awkwardly. Makes a fist with his hand and holds it out chest-level for a fist-bump.

“Bro, that was a good hunt.”

Cas squints down at Dean’s fist. Then up at Dean’s face. He seems at a loss for words.

-

Don’t get him wrong, Dean loves long road trips and time spent with his baby. He even has a strange fondness for quirky, grungy motel rooms and greasy diner food. But having a home base, somewhere to actually set down roots? It’s damn nice. Maybe he’s getting a little old, but his joints don’t forgive him anymore for sleeping in the back of the car and it takes longer and longer between hunts to recuperate.

Plus, Cas is living in the bunker with them now.

Right next to Dean’s room.

Dean can hear him sometimes…..

But really, what he loves most about living with Cas is getting to cook for him. Dean pretty much has to cook for a family of four to feed him and Sam, adding on a little for Cas’ strangely small appetite isn’t much at all. Getting to taste and explore and find out all the things Cas likes, it’s been really nice.

Cas isn’t content to always be on the receiving end, however. The first time he tried to make anything, it was pie and it was a disaster. Dean probably made a bigger deal about the gesture than Cas even meant. But pie. That was like saying ‘let’s go steady’ to Dean.

The ex-angel has picked up a few neat things though, and whatever the hell he puts in his spaghetti sauce is fucking amazing. Sitting next to him at the wide utilitarian table under the flicker of fluorescent lights in the bunker’s kitchen, Dean knocks Cas with his elbows too many times because he is eating with a gusto. Food like this deserves to be ravaged.

Across the table, Sam is more politely enjoying his food. Probably has too much meat for him. Like, the sauce is barely sauce and mostly this spicy crumbled hamburger that’s. Ungh. It’s so good.

Cas has little crinkles of the corners of his eyes and his smile is even more obvious now, stretches across his face, shows off his teeth and Dean is oddly endeared by how crooked the bottom row is.

He doesn’t realize that he’s left his fork hovering halfway up and is now turned towards Cas with their shoulders pressed, staring soulfully into each other’s eyes, and Dean’s trying to convey just how much he appreciates what Cas does for him because he can’t ever seem to get the words out.

Sam coughs pointedly and rolls his eyes.

Dean realizes he was leaning in to get that little speck of sauce on the bottom of Cas’ lip. With his lips. Lip to lip. Those are some nice lips.

Pulling back, Dean mumbles, “Bro, this spaghetti is fucking amazing,” before shoving his face with another forkful and he is definitely not blushing.

-

There’s an old pier above the bunker that juts out into the river; the place probably ran on steam power at some point or another. Dean likes to go up there to think, sit on the wide concrete blocks whose purpose is lost. The sun sets just down to the side of the river, disappearing into the horizon line. He does not come up here to watch sunsets. He just needs some air sometimes. Likes to sit and think.

Occasionally, Cas will follow him up and sit quietly by his side. They don’t really watch the sunset together. It just happens while they sit not talking, thighs touching, and there’s more than enough room on these concrete blocks to scoot away, but in the chill evening they leach the heat from Dean through his jeans and Cas is like a furnace. It’s just practical, if he lets his thigh spread a little and press along Cas’. And if Cas leans a bit against his side - maybe he’s fallen asleep with his head on Dean’s shoulder a couple of times but the guy probably has a weird sleep schedule - well, Dean just figures he’s cold too.

There’s a hand settled on top of his thigh and Dean has one arm curled along the curve of Cas’ broad shoulders. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. Scrappy son of a bitch. Dean palms down the length of his arm and across his back. It’s a habit, when he touches a person, checking if there’s anything wrong, if he flinches - Sam used to try and hide things from him, how serious injuries were after a hunt.

Cas never flinches away. He sighs and sinks further against Dean. Poor guy must be tuckered out.

The sky is a swirl of bright colors, clouds fringed in purple, coming up from the forest line in bands of red and orange, the bottom of the sun dipping under the river. There’s a soft shush to the world as the day fades. Dean listens to the huff of Cas’ breath, feels him breathing where he’s pressed along Dean’s side, feels him shift.

They’re looking at each other again. It’s like this weird bubble Dean can’t see outside of when Cas is staring straight at him and there’s so much unsaid between them. Sometimes Cas looks like he wants to say something. His lips twitch a little, he licks them. It’s distracting. Instead, Dean gets to it first.

“Bro, I think I left the oven on.”

And he promptly disentangles himself and runs away.

-

So Cas isn’t really sleeping in his own bedroom much these days. If you asked Dean how Cas ended up in his bed, he wouldn’t really be able to tell you. It was like a strobe-light adrenaline fueled hallucination haze. It was fucking spectacular. Cas stuck around though. He always sticks around.

Cas has the right kind of touch, to pin him down so Dean can’t squirm away.

His hands grip rough into the thickness of Dean’s thighs and spread him wide, his hips grind relentlessly into the clutch of Dean’s body, his eyes hold unwavering the whole time wide and amazed and christ it’s too much sometimes.

It’s too much but Dean can’t give it up. It’s not something he can run away from. It’s not something he wants to run away from. It’s Cas, here in his home, with a gentle mouth and patient insistence and his stupid, clueless inability to see how bad Dean is at this. Because Cas is just as bad.

So what’s a guy to do?

On his side, sheets half pulled up over sweaty legs, his ass is still a pleasant ache and his stomach is sore like it hasn’t been since he had to do a hundred crunches for drills. Cas’ cheeks are rosy, his eyes a little glassy, one hand held out to the space between them, fingers all twisted up in the sheets.

What’s Dean supposed to say. When he wants to fuck Cas like it’s the apocalypse all over. When he wants to sit on the pier and watch fucking sunsets like girls. When he wants to have farting contests and play dumb pranks and show Cas all the filthiest kinds of porn. When he wants to spend the rest of his life with the stubborn son of a bitch.

So Dean lays his hand over Cas’, gets their fingers all tangled up. Takes a deep breath.

“Cas, will you be my bro?”

And Cas, he squints a little and squeezes Dean hand and says “Dean,” with all his serious gravitas, “I’d love to be your bro.”


End file.
